


even as its petals scatter

by novalotypo



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Gen, how not to deal with Feeling Things, lance just wants to be happy, or at least imagery of it, solving problems by pretending they don't exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 22:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15650385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novalotypo/pseuds/novalotypo
Summary: Lance looks into the mirror. Wipes away the stars in his eyes and summons the storm in its place. He’s a dreamer, but his dreams are nothing in the grand void that is the universe and the endless ocean that is responsibility.“You could be something,” he tells himself.He bleeds emotion and uncertainty. If he looks back, he’s sure to see a trail of red that leads back as far as he’s walked.So he looks forward. Walks slowly. Steadily. Whatever will come is sure to come. The future will not be the same.(When will you be something?)





	even as its petals scatter

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally a challenge from myself to write something a little bleaker than what i usually come up with, and this is the result.

People are interesting because they’re full of dreams.

  


“You could be a firefighter when you’re older,” his mother tells him when he’s nothing more than a three year-old child with many toys but no real ambition.

  


(Not for him. His fire truck toys are fun and the heat of summer is fun, but fighting flames and scorching heat scares him.)

  


“You could be a policeman when you’re older,” his father tells him when he’s nothing more than a six year-old with a love for action and justice and all the good in the world.

  


(What fun is there in pointing a weapon at another living being?)

  


“You could be a scientist when you’re older,” his siblings tell him when he’s nothing more than an eleven year-old with a passion for the unknown and the drama of unexpected happenstances.

  


(No patience, no love for inquiry, no love for the process that leads to secrets unknown.)

  


“You could be a pilot when you’re older,” he tell himself when he’s nothing more than a sixteen year-old with a dream for blue skies and freedom and something bigger.

  


(This, though?

  


This might work.)

  


“You could be something when you’re older,” he tell himself, hands clenched around the sink of his large but too small room aboard the Castle of Lions, travelling thousands of light years away from home toward places he doesn’t want to go. 

  


But duty calls, and it calls loud (like the roar of a lion), and Lance is many things, but he is not a coward.

  


You could be, you could be, you could be. 

  


When?

  


When you’re older.

  


No. Listen to me. _When?_

  


Lance is eighteen, going on eighty. 

  


You could be, you could be, you could be.

  


(Blue skies, freedom, the heat of summer, gentle laughter, the tickle of tall grass. Being among all of it and nothing else.)

  


Lance looks into the mirror. Wipes away the stars in his eyes and summons the storm in its place. He’s a dreamer, but his dreams are nothing in the grand void that is the universe and the endless ocean that is responsibility. 

  


“You could be something,” he tells himself. 

  


He bleeds emotion and uncertainty. If he looks back, he’s sure to see a trail of red that leads back as far as he’s walked. 

  


So he looks forward. Walks slowly. Steadily. Whatever will come is sure to come. The future will not be the same.

  


_(When will you_ be _something?)_

  


* * *

  


In the end, Lance decides on the Garrison. His family is overjoyed when he makes it in. He’s faced with congratulations and kindness and hugs and so much more than he could ever ask for. 

  


Some of his relatives are surprised when the news gets to them. Lance doesn’t understand why. What better place is there to be when you need a big, brave dream to hide one that’s tiny and insignificant?

  


“The name’s Lance McClain,” Lance says on the very first day, lifting his chin up as he introduces himself. Nobody will know. Nobody must know. “I’m going to be the best fighter pilot this galaxy’s ever seen!”

  


At this point, the eyerolls and sighs he receives in response are nothing more than white noise. But that’s okay. That’s perfectly alright. 

  


Now that everyone knows he has a grandiose dream, everything should be okay.

  


And then it isn’t.

  


“I want to be an engineer,” Hunk says to him, legs hugged to his chest. There is no one in this world with a bigger heart than Hunk, and it makes Lance hurt to lie to someone as kind and as forgiving as Hunk. “I mean, if that wasn’t obvious already, ha ha.”

  


Lance throws on a smile, winking for good measure. He won’t bleed over Hunk, but he isn’t cruel enough to try for apathy with someone who feels so much. “You’re a genius, buddy.”

  


Hunk flounders. “I’m not – there are so many people out there who are smarter than me, I mean–” Then he stops, hands returning to rest on his knees. “I mean, I love making stuff. Creating. It’s fun, and the brainwork is awesome, but–”

  


There’s something in Hunk’s voice that makes Lance lean in and listen more carefully. “Yeah?”

  


“But sometimes I just want to create for the sake of creating,” Hunk says quietly, and Lance breaks a little. “Do you – do you ever really love something, but at the same time you hate it, because there’s no way you can do it just for the sake of doing it because that’s just not how the world works?”

  


(Blue skies, tall grass, the heat of summer.)

  


Lance may not bleed, but he will break. He may not shatter, but he will give his voice to someone who speaks so clearly to him.

  


“Yeah,” Lance says simply, wishing he could say more. But for some reason, Hunk looks surprised, then sad.

  


“Okay,” says Hunk, and from there on out, they have no more conversations about what could be but what can’t be.

  


* * *

  


At first, Pidge scares Lance. 

  


It’s a raw, genuine emotion that scratches at Lance with short but sharp claws, leaving him reeling and running back to patch up his wounds.

  


At first, Pidge is cold to both Lance and Hunk. Lance understands why people don’t like him; he’s too fake and too real all at once. People recognizes other people because all people bleed red, but Lance doesn’t bleed at all. 

  


Hunk, though? Anyone who can bring themselves to be cruel to Hunk bleeds black, midnight ink, thick tar. And by the way Pidge sneaks down the empty, dimly-lit Garrison hallways at night, Lance can see that Pidge is always bleeding. Determination seeps from Pidge’s skin in waves, and it makes Lance dizzy.

  


So Lance builds himself up as a barrier between Hunk and their cold new teammate. He’s prepared to take whatever blows Pidge might throw at them and throw back attacks of his own, but as fate would have it, Pidge warms up to them. It’s a slow but steady process, but it happens nonetheless, and Lance can’t help but stare in confusion. 

  


Nobody changes unless they want to change, and Pidge was the furthest thing from someone would willingly change. Nobody who bleeds tar ever wants to change. 

  


But Pidge does change. She grows. She lets Hunk and Lance wade through the tar.

  


And when Lance sees her ( _really_ sees her) for the first time, he realizes that it isn’t that Pidge bleeds tar because she has no blood.

  


She has no more blood to bleed.

  


How bad is that, really? To lose so much that your dreams and desires burn away, leaving only cold determination?

  


Is it really that bad?

  


Lance doesn’t know. 

  


Is it better than sitting in the dark, staying up until dawn breaks above the mountains, pushing a needle and string into skin again and again and again–

  


Lance doesn’t know.

  


* * *

  


Being thrust into space by a giant robot cat and the whims of fate wasn’t something Lance expected. He can’t bring himself to say he’s happy it happened, either. The rest of his team feels the same for a while. 

  


Pidge has greater plans of rescue and reunion until she doesn’t. Fate suddenly aligns what she wants and what she must do, and with an eye as sharp as Pidge’s, one straight shot is all she needs to achieve both of those enormous tasks. 

  


Hunk demands reason only to come up empty every time, scared out of his mind. But then he isn’t, because his infinite kindness refuses to let the universe wither and die. 

  


Keith questions their obligation to people they’ve never met and a universe that’s never given them anything in return. But then he doesn’t, because he finds friendship in battle and family in adversity.

  


Shiro is Shiro. Nothing he ever feels will be the same as what Lance feels. They both bleed red but Shiro bleeds courage. He sheds blood and fights with open wounds because whatever he bleeds on, he makes stronger. 

  


Lance doesn’t understand. He licks his wounds clean in secret, frantically stitching them up with string and needle. 

  


And Lance... never really finds that it that makes him fight like there’s nothing left to lose. 

  


So he carries the scent of summer in his skin as long as he can. As long as he can close his eyes and see endless blue skies, that’s enough.

  


The very least he can do is fight so he can return to figuring out when he’ll become something.

  


* * *

  


By some miracle, Allura, _Princess_ Allura, in all her royal beauty and grace, sees something in Lance that few have been able to see before.

  


She sits Lance down one night, smothered in the pillows and blankets that have made their way into the common room over time, dressed in loose-fitting pajamas. 

  


She speaks of insecurities and uncertainty, of the great burden of inheritance and legacy, of masks and players on a great stage. She tells Lance that she prides herself on her ability to bury her emotions and desires underneath the crushing weight of her duty.

  


“It’s a talent I would never wish upon another person,” she says, turning to Lance with an incredible sadness in her eyes, looking deeper than anyone else has ever been able to see. 

  


Lance holds her gaze, and for the first time since he was launched into space, he allows his smile to fall flat.

  


Ah. So it’s like that, is it?

  


“There’s something I’d like to do when we get back to Earth,” says Lance, looking up at the high, arched ceiling. It’s too cold here. It’s too cold everywhere in space. “I don’t want much. I don’t even want to _do_ much. I think that, for me, all I want is to just watch the clouds pass.”

  


Allura doesn’t smile. She doesn’t frown, doesn’t give any indication as to how she feels about Lance’s stupid, meaningless dream. 

  


All she does is look somewhere far beyond Lance. Her eyes glaze over with something familiar, like stars or mist or storms, but it’s something wholly unique to Allura. Apathy looks different on different people. “I believe all of us want something we can never have.”

  


A clap of laughter makes its way from Lance’s throat. He sits forward, hands clenched together like he’ll never feel again. “Don’t I know it.”

  


There’s little to bring Allura and Lance together. Between Allura’s mask of royal haughtiness and Lance’s plastic smiles, there’s natural animosity. But it isn’t natural, because two artificial things cannot make one real thing. 

  


And yet they do come together under the veil of night, two bleeding hearts wrung too tight to show anything but blankness. They stitch their wounds up and wake to face a new morning, perhaps not together (too unified, too friendly, too generous for two people who refuse to let anyone in), but at the very least in the presence of one another.

  


* * *

  


“We have a saying for beautiful people on Earth,” Lance tells Allura one of Those Nights. “It’s that they’ve got stars in their eyes and storms under their skin.”

  


Allura frowns. She cocks her head in confusion. “Is that meant to be a compliment?”

  


“Mostly.”

  


“I don’t understand,” Allura says. “Stars die and storms destroy. There’s no happiness in that metaphor.”

  


(There are stars in his eyes and storms under his skin. He is just that: a beautiful creation that nobody will ever understand. 

  


Oh, there’s a word for that, isn’t there?

  


That’s right. A disaster.)

  


Lance takes a deep but silent breath. 

  


“You have a point,” he says, then laughs for good measure.

  


Allura keeps her gaze on him until she either sees what she wants to see or gives up.

  


* * *

  


The thing about apathy is that it looks ugly on everyone.

  


The less you show, the less people know about you, and the more dangerous you seem. It’s dangerous to look like you don’t care, because then people will see you as a monster.

  


The thing about apathy is that it never really is apathy.

  


Fighting too hard only to lose the war. Falling backward only to be abandoned. Searching for purpose for a lifetime, finding something precious and fragile but beautiful all the same, only for it to be broken. To be told _grow up_ and _don’t be selfish_ when all you want is to be happy.

  


Is it right, to be happy when you aren’t helping others?

  


Is that what happiness is? To help others? To help them always, to always be the hero?

  


Lance doesn’t know. At this point, it doesn’t matter, because he’ll never find out anyway.

  


What he does know is that apathy is the last defense to someone who desperately needs to fit a role. Apathy is what remains when all the shields are torn asunder, because the only thing left below it is what can never been seen.

  


* * *

  


There’s something awful about Keith that Lance hates with all his heart.

  


He doesn’t hate Keith. Keith is inspiring and talented in ways that Lance will never be. He’s the pilot of the Red Lion, furious and quick like a wisp of flame, and then he’s their leader, the pilot of the Black Lion, hesitant at first but unquestionable eventually. 

  


No. It isn’t Keith he hates. 

  


How can someone so lost be so talented? Pidge, Hunk, and Shiro are all immensely talented in their own playing fields, and they all have drive and direction. It confuses Lance and makes him wonder what makes a person lost to begin with.

  


And even later, when Keith finds his drive, he still drifts through life, taking on whatever responsibility he finds and wearing it like a suit of armour. He isn’t a talented pilot with a rebellious streak anymore. He’s found drive from trial through fire, and it isn’t _fair._

  


Where is it, then? Where’s the drive? It’s out there somewhere, isn’t it? It’s out there in the vast, empty universe?

  


Lance doesn’t know where to look. He doesn’t even know where to begin. He’s been searching for so long now and yet all he has is grass between his toes and sunlight on his face. 

  


“I guess you found it,” Lance says one day as they’re all making their way out of the hangar, because he might not bleed, but he will find something (better) worth bleeding for. 

  


Keith pauses, brows furrowing in confusion. “What?”

  


Giving Keith a light jab with his elbow, Lance says, “Come on, leader! You’re here for a reason, aren’t you?”

  


The look Keith gives him is long and blank. “We all are,” he says, before being called away by Pidge.

  


And Lances stands there, helmet tucked under one arm and bayard in hand. He’s never felt comfortable in this paladin armour, but today, he’s certain that it doesn’t fit.

  


* * *

  


Lance doesn’t know what incites it. He can’t remember what he did to deserve this.

  


“You can talk to me when things are rough, Lance,” Shiro says, so earnestly and so warmly that Lance wants to rip him to pieces.

  


He will never hate someone for being what they are. Whatever upsets him is his own fault. His problems are his own and nobody else’s, but when someone prods at the stitches on his skin– 

  


“It’s okay,” Lance says, airy but flat, smile nothing more than a shoddy facade of emotion. “I’m okay, Shiro, you don’t have to worry about me.”

  


It’s true. There’s nothing to worry about. 

  


The only grief he has to tell is of a world that hates his dream because it’s absolutely pathetic. The only grief he has to tell is of wishing he belonged somewhere, wishing he had something to fill the void left from the delusion he’s torn from his soul. He is lonely, he bleeds, but he is nothing up here, surrounded by people who are driven to do things because they’re good people and nothing else.

  


He is nothing anywhere, but here especially, he is lost. Whatever grief he has to tell is pathetic, because his hurt is nothing compared to what everyone else has suffered. 

  


“It’s okay,” he says again, softly. “It’s not worth your time.”

  


Nothing is, and nothing will be.

  


* * *

  


When Lance recommends browsing through the Castle of Lions’ library archives to find some interesting reads, Allura shakes her head.

  


“Altean literature might not be pandered toward your taste,” she explains. After a moment of contemplation, she adds, “Or mine.”

  


Lance pauses, finger hovering aboard the globe-like projection that is the archives. “In what way?”

  


“Far too many tragedies,” she says bluntly. “There’s literary value in sadness, of course, but after a while, you become rather desensitized toward suffering in general.”

  


The Alteans were light years ahead of humans, both scientifically and philosophically, then.

  


Tapping into a novel, Lance puts on a smile. “Well,” he says, smelling grass and heat, “a story where people die dramatically will sell, won’t it?”

  


* * *

  


There are things that will never be. 

  


He will never truly be Lance, pilot of the Blue Lion, an incorrigible flirt with a bark far superior to his bite. He is just Lance McClain, but Lance McClain is nobody. Nobody has to know.

  


He will never be able to enjoy the heat of summer and the light breeze through the tall grass as the clouds pass by. He needs something greater because the world demands it. Nobody has to know.

  


He will never bleed. If he bleeds, then people will know. And nobody has to know.

  


It’s okay. It really is.

  


* * *

  


“You know, Lance,” Keith says, frustration and confusion mounting an impressive assault on his features, “sometimes, I really don’t get you.”

  


(You could be, you could be, you could be.)

  


Lance puts on a wicked smile, hands on his hips, eyebrow cocked up. “Well, I _am_ a man of mystery.”

  


“You’re a lot more than that.” Keith’s eyes narrow in a way that makes Lance nauseous. “You’re so much more than that, but you’ve never let us see everything you are!”

  


(Heat and grass and blue skies–)

  


And Lance’s smile slips into something dry and flat, like cracked desert ground, lost and wandering in a place where what was once there has been long annihilated. 

  


Keith presses harder. “Well?”

  


(When will you _be_ something?)

  


Lance props up a smile and holds it there. It’s artificial, but when hasn’t it been?

  


“It’s okay,” he says simply. “A peony is still a flower.”

  


Then he turns on his heel and walks away, ignoring Keith’s cries of _I don’t understand_ and _what do you mean_. The halls are long and cold; Keith will give up eventually, and everything will return to as it was.

  


Along the way, Lance passes by Allura.

  


She looks into his eyes, searching for something beyond the stars and the storms and the blue skies. Lance doesn’t know if she finds out, or if she’ll ever find it, just like he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to see past the glaze of memories lost to time and endless fog in her brilliant blue eyes.

  


“Good night,” Allura says, gaze cool.

  


(You could be _so much_ –)

  


Lance nods. “Good night, Princess.”

  


And he walks back, feeling too cold and too lonely and too out of place, why is he here, why is it so wrong to just want to be _happy_ – 

  


(–But you’ll never be anything.)

**Author's Note:**

> title from [Say It](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F64yFFnZfkI) by Yorushika. ironically, this work was inspired by one line from Say It ("even as its petals scatter, a peony is still a flower") but the entire premise was based off of another of Yorushika's songs, [Hitchcock](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t7MBzMP4OzY).
> 
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